A Revolutionary American Model of Cycling

The Good Life

The hottest revolution in American cycling doesn't have a name, a mission, or a coherent identity. But if you slow down long enough and look around, you might notice it—and join in the fun.

dan koeppel

My closet tells a similar story. Four pairs of cleated shoes are stacked next to a week's worth of fresh chamois. I own dozens of jerseys, some of them race mementos. I never shaved my legs, but I was fussy enough to match my water bottles before going for a ride.

The Bianchi demands none of that. After taking it on a month-long crossing of western China, I modified it for light city riding. Once my circumstances evolved and expanded how I rode, my panniers became receptacles for groceries; soon, I had zip-tied them to the bike. Instead of spanning continents, my rides now hardly cross neighborhoods. My typical solo jaunt is to a Cuban bakery, where I read comic books and eat saddle-sized slices of guava pie. The Bianchi got dented and gooey gel started leaking from my handlebar tape, but I didn't mind. Riding never felt so easy and natural. It touched a vague memory—one so obscure that I might have been recalling a dream—of rolling around the streets of New York as a teenager, not knowing that a "bike world" existed beyond my bike and my world.

IT CAN BE A CHALLENGE TO DEFINE a transformation in cycling that has no real name or homogenous identity—a movement that doesn't see itself as such. But the numbers confirm that we're changing the way—and the places—we ride. From 2005 to 2009, according to the U.S. Census, bike travel in the 70 largest American cities increased by 37 percent. What's surprising is where the biggest gains were. In surveys conducted by the League of American Cyclists, ridership in cities not recognized as bicycle-friendly has steadily outpaced that in places that openly embraced cycling. And momentum is building. The largest jumps came in 2009, the most recent year for which statistics are available. Over 2008, the towns that didn't fall into the bike-welcoming categories—like Dallas, New Orleans, and Omaha, Nebraska—saw a 29 percent boost. That's compared with just 1 percent in some places that publicly professed two-wheeled love.

What's behind the surge? Gas prices went up. Groups that previously lobbied alone—cyclists, pedestrians, mass-transit advocates—coalesced into a single alternative-transportation movement. In cities, a keep-it-close-to-home sensibility, evidenced by the popularity of farm-to-table restaurants and local brewpubs, has expanded naturally to include bikes. That's showing up at cash registers. Sales of both high-and low-end urban tires have gone up: Soma's Everwear and Panaracer's Ribmo, for example, have been runaway hits, even at prices reaching $50—that's a lot for a utility model—with units sold reaching into the six figures.

How did all this happen? It's not just that there are more people on bikes. There's plenty of evidence that geeks like me—people who covet cutting-edge components and carbon fiber—have simply added a bike to their collection, a machine that offers a kind of low-tech, unpretentious simplicity. San Francisco's Public Bikes is typical of the new-wave companies bringing nontraditional creativity to the bike industry. Founder Rob Forbes had previously created Design Within Reach, a vendor of high-aesthetic and high-function urban furniture and accessories. Public Bikes, which Forbes launched in 2010, brings the DWR perspective to bikes with simple, attractive, and functional models whose appeal stretches beyond conventional bike tradition.

The company sells mostly by mail order, via a website that's a model of straightforwardness. Purchasers are asked just four questions: how fast; traditional or step-through frame; height; and budget, with prices starting at $550. (Colors vary based on frame selection.) Accessories are sold in a $170 "new rider essentials" pack, with a lock, rack, bell, front and rear lights, and a helmet from Nutcase (which are good-looking enough that casual riders see them as a want-to-wear item).

These basic bikes reverse an aesthetic that's been dominant for years. Logos are kept to a minimum. Colors are simple. "We noticed that people were always peeling the stickers off their regular bikes," says Adam McDowell, founder of Linus Cycles, a two-year-old company based in Venice Beach, California. There's just a single logo on a Linus bike, which is available in three basic colors.

McDowell calls his company's offerings "nonenthusiast bikes." That may be true, but there's plenty of enthusiasm for these kinds of bikes among people who have been riding for decades.